The Ascent.

East of the Marmalade Fields, past the Dulcet Manor of ancient repute, stands the frowning peak of Odor Mountain. Many have tried to ascend its heights; many have failed. But I would not be one of them. Preparing for the climb since I was a boy of twelve, I had trained myself to challenge the sheerest cliff and find a foothold on the slickest ice field. I had faced down the yeti and butted heads with the fiercest mountain goat. So I gathered my crew for the confrontation that lay ahead of us; an eminence wrapped in impenetrable mist and mystery.
There was Big Swede, Limey Bill, Turkey Sue, Slicker, and Bum Fuse the cook. They were a rowdy and frowzy bunch, but I had seen how they reacted to danger and deprivation on a dozen mountainsides; when the chips were down they had each others back and never left a pal behind. I trusted them with everything except my car keys, which I left with the desk clerk at Dulcet Manor.
 On our first day up the rocky slopes we ran into a bubbling spring of natural fusel oil that ran past our campsite like an uncoiling python. Limey Bill rashly took a long drink.
"Blimey!" he exclaimed. "I can smell fish and chips!" 
We tried to stop him, but he ran off a cliff into the void. There was no way to retrieve his mangled corpse from the bottom of the ravine, so we built a stone cairn to his memory and continued on our saddened way.
The next night Big Swede took both our Ruhmkorff coils out into the darkness, claiming he could almost taste the surstromming because the odor was so strong. A herd of nocturnal kayaks got him; we put his shinbone, all that was left, into the hollow of an oak tree, then filled it in with campaign buttons to keep the indigenous bag ladies from defiling it.
My crew were beginning to lose heart. We needed something to cheer us up.
"Bum Fuse" I said to our cook, "whip up something tasty for dinner tonight, and don't spare the cooking sherry!" Rising to the occasion, Bum Fuse made filet mignon, with new potatoes smothered in caper sauce, and a Boston creme cake. I began to chow down heartily, but the rest of the crew looked at me oddly.
"Why are you chewing on that dead squirrel?" Turkey Sue finally asked me.
"Dead squirrel, nonsense!" I replied. "It's the best tasting filet mignon  I ever sank my teeth into . . . " But her question nettled me, so I held up my plate close to the light of the campfire, and sure enough it was a rancid dead squirrel. I immediately spewed the foul carcase out of my mouth. 
"You should have had the deep dish pizza, like me and Slicker" said Turkey Sue smugly. But, in fact, they were both gnawing on pine cones. When I pointed this out to them they roared with laughter, until I snatched their plates away from them to hold in front of the campfire.
"Great Higgly Piggly!" cried Slicker, starting to gag. "The boss is right! Somebody give me a Starburst, quick!" 
I turned to Bum Fuse, intending to give him the beating of his life for serving us such trash -- but the poor beggar was contentedly  slurping up a bowl of gravel.
"Great noodles" he said to me with a smile now marred by several chipped teeth. "I'm gonna get fat if I eat much more!"
"It's the bewitchery of Odor Mountain!" I cried out to them all. "I've read about this -- the minerals in the mountain combine to create a sort of protean pheromone that suffuses the air. We are smelling what we want to smell, and that's making a fool out of our taste buds. Everyone, quick, plug your nostrils with the weeds around the campfire!" 
So saying, I demonstrated how to jam a whole weed, stalk and all, up each nostril. My intrepid crew followed suit, and soon we were safe -- we couldn't smell a thing. I shook hands with each of them, firmly assuring them that the worst was now past and we would soon be setting our gonfalon on the top of this heretofore unconquered mountain. 
Morning came with terrible agony. Turns out the weeds around the campfire were poison ivy. Inflamed and porous like a singed sponge, our noses glowed with torment. Pus dribbled from the enlarged pores in disgusting rivulets.
"Be gotta keeb goink! Cank gib ub!" I yelled at my team mates as they rolled around on the ground, honking like demented geese. I pulled each one up off the ground and led them to a nearby stream to soak their flaming noses in the ice cold water. This helped immensely, and then I dosed them each with quinine and saddle soap. By noon we were ready to resume our climb to fame and fortune. 
Of the many further adventures that happened along the way I'll not say much. We lost Slicker to an avalanche at the Borgo Pass, and Turkey Sue decided to settle down and raise a family when we reached the Folgefonna. So it was just Bum Fuse and I who made it to the summit and planted the colors. We took a few selfies and then started back down. Poor Bum Fuse bought the farm while crossing an unnamed stream when his pantaloons became waterlogged and dragged him under the icy current to a watery grave. 
I alone survived to tell the tale, which now you've heard it can you lend me the price of a Swiss Chalet?